


Clumsy

by penvision



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, ignores aou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penvision/pseuds/penvision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the two seconds directly after he extended his legs in front of him to breach the window and before his boots made contact, Clint had one thought: 'well… this is a bad idea.'"  Filling in the blanks during and after the battle.  Now officially AU (thanks Whedon!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His arrow found anchor in the stone side of the building feet above where the floor to ceiling windows began. Chunks of debris fell around him as he swung in a graceful arch toward one of the windows. In the two seconds directly after he extended his legs in front of him to breach the window and before his boots made contact, Clint had one thought: 'well… this is a bad idea.'

And then his boots were shattering the glass and his knees were absorbing the blow; that he kept them locked in his exhausted state was a testament to both extensive training and years of experience, and he was sliding against the tile, shards sliding with him, all around him, under him, quiver digging into his back.

As he slid to a stop he attempted to role onto his side but only managed to turn his head and barely suppress a groan. He let his head fall to the floor with a soft 'thunk,' instantly regretting it as pain reverberated against his skull from where his head had met the metal bar only hours previously. He could feel the last of the adrenaline leaving his system, his endorphins fading, the dull pain being replaced by sharper, more acute aches. His left leg throbbed in agony; at the ankle, at the knee, he could feel his pulse in his toes, each beat causing waves of torment. Beads of warmth dripped down his exposed arms as he became aware of needling stings akin to paper cuts across his skin, knew that shards of glass had embedded themselves during his less than textbook breach.

Light and shadows drifted across the dark office, bouncing off of the glass and walls and tile, the room shifting in and out of focus as Clint tried to slow his breathing. It was eerily, peacefully quiet; the sounds of battle barely penetrating the thick glass, and he let his eyes drift shut.

So quiet… Too quiet. Clint's eyes snapped open as he lifted his head off of the floor, ignoring the throbbing. The radio chatter had stopped. Which on a regular mission with trained soldiers and agents was normal, but this odd group that Natasha and Fury and Coulson were so fond of never shut up. Tony Stark seemed to be obsessed with bad one liners and side comments while talking endlessly to his AI, while the captain had been constantly shouting orders; to them, to police, to bystanders. He and Natasha had been trading the occasional inside joke, their usual mission banter, and Thor had mostly been yelling and grunting.

As more shadows lapsed along the wall Clint realized that they were from the enemy craft passing the building, and suddenly the battle sounds seemed to pierce the room. He was not the only one in trouble, if the radio silence meant anything, and he had to get up.

Clint threw his right shoulder forward and successfully rolled fully onto his side, his left leg and head protesting profusely and his left arm digging into even more glass. He propped his right arm against the tile, his glove protecting his palm and fingers from the glass, and pushed. Clumsily, slowly, he managed to sit up. His stomach lurched and rolled and his head pounded. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. 'Don't close your eyes.' He stared out of the windows, watched more craft pass, slowed his breathing, waited for the pain to ebb. 'Get up.'

Clint braced his left arm on a desk and pushed himself up with his right leg, then slowly eased weight onto his left. It collapsed under him, and he instinctively shifted his weight back to his right, but that leg collapsed, too, followed by his arm on the desk, and suddenly the tile floor was flying up to meet him. 'Well, shit.'

The tile was cool against his burning cheek, and it occurred to him that he was probably running a fever. He has not eaten. Has not slept. He was out of adrenaline, out of endorphins, out of arrows. Clint Barton was done.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint's eyes crack open. The tile is no longer cool and soothing, but uncomfortably warm and slick with sweat where his skin touches it. The light in the room is steady. Sirens pierce the air, agitating his, most likely, concussed head. He had heard Tony's voice. …Something about shawarma.

The word brings up memories of weekend passes in Kuwait; bored soldiers filling unsuspecting roadside restaurants past capacity, overpaying for warm beer that the owners only stock for them and never questioning the meat used. He is pretty sure he has eaten camel, horse, cat, probably dog. Memories of Natasha sitting across from him, in a swarming marketplace in Cairo, in an almost abandoned shop in an almost abandoned town in Romania, in places he never knew the name of. His stomach growls.

"Clint?" Her voice momentarily replaces the sirens. She sounds alright. Good. "Clint?" But worried. "Barton?"

He attempts to say 'Natasha,' but it comes out as a long groan.

"Barton?"

Damn his head hurts. "I fucking hate this job sometimes."

He hears Thor's deep rumble of a laugh, loud and jovial, from the chest more than the vocal chords, "where are you, archer?"

Clint looks around as much as possible without lifting his head, both inside the building and out, for a name or landmark. Nothing. "Got stuck working late at the office."

"Could you be a little more specific?" Steve. He sounds winded, tired.

"I'm in the building where Tony dropped me off. Or the one next to it. Not sure."

"Can you get to a window?"

Clint turns his head, resting his chin against the tile, and looks toward the window that he had breached. It is at least twenty feet away, although he cannot judge the distance well so close to the ground. His legs are useless, the left alternating between throbbing and stabbing pain and the muscles in the right jumping and twitching with exhaustion; he would have to army crawl. Across glass. He sighs. "Yeah, I can do that."

He can almost see Steve nodding, looking to the skyscrapers for any signs of him, "good, we'll-"

"He's lying." Nat. "Thor?"

"I will find him."

Clint is not embarrassed by his state of fatigue; everyone has their limits, but he cannot help but be annoyed by how energetic the demi god sounds. At least the captain sounds tired. And Tony must be; Natasha told him once that the only time the man ever shut up was when he was exhausted. Still, he would prefer to not be found sprawled out face down on the floor like a drunken teenager. He spends the next few minutes trying to sit up, succeeding just as Thor appears in his broken window frame, awkwardly sliding through. They nod, and Thor makes his way over, glass shattering with a satisfying crunch under his boots. He stops a few feet away from Clint and considers him, head tilting slightly.

"I remember you, archer, you and your bow. You were sent to kill me."

Clint winces. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Thor shakes his head. "Do not apologize, I was a different man then, filled with rage and hate."

A nod. Clint looks at the blood on his arms; dried and flaking. "I was a different man, too."

Thor sighs, understanding crossing his face, and Clint is surprised by how willingly the man shows his emotions. "And do not feel guilty for your actions under my brother's control." Thor pulls out his earpiece and holds Clint's gaze. "I know you remember all. I know my words will not help, but you spared my life when you had no need to. You are a good man."

"Your brother said something similar, before..." Clint rests a hand over the center of his chest.

"Loki exceeds at reading people. He was not wrong."

Clint shakes his head. "I'm a trained assassin. And Coulson ordered me to."

Thor shakes his head. "The decision was still yours. And you do what most cannot. It is a difficult burden to bear; taking the lives of others, even if it is to protect." Both men look at Mjolnir as Thor's fingers tighten around the leather. "But you do not bear it alone. Come, the red headed woman is quite worried for you." Thor puts his earpiece back in and extends his hand, pausing to take in Barton's arm. "Perhaps…"

Clint grasps Thor's arm above the wrist and attempts to pull himself up, but he is too weak, and as Thor's hand grips his own arm he winces, but does not let go. "I've been through worse."

Thor nods as he picks the smaller man up, "a good man, indeed, Clint Barton."


	3. Chapter 3

Clint is at the complete and absolute mercy of the men on either side of him; his arms slung gracelessly over their shoulders as he hops on his right leg. Thor and Steve are bigger, taller, and both slouch in an attempt to make him more comfortable as they listlessly amble forward. It would be easier for them if they did not help him. They had no real reason to; could have left him with an infantry or police unit, but when he and Thor landed, a little wobbly, and Clint started to slide from Thor's grasp Steve instantly, wordlessly, slipped Clint's arm over his shoulders. Tony silently started for his tower, thankfully only three blocks away, and Steve and Thor followed. Banner, sensing their destination, took off ahead, smashing any vehicles that had managed to escape battle damage along the way.

Clint and Steve breathe heavily as they pause for a break. Tony leans against a lamp post. "Longest three blocks ever." They all nod.

Clint feels Thor grip his arm tighter. "I could fly all of you there."

He shakes his head. "No. No more flying." Steve nods in agreement and Clint turns his head slightly toward the captain. "Thanks. For carrying me."

The captain shrugs, winces. "Don't mention it."

…

Clint takes in the working lights of the Stark Tower as they shuffle into the lobby. His arms rapidly prickle from the air conditioning. "So it really is self-sustaining. Tony, thank God for your enormous ego."

Tony smirks. "Don't let agent Romanov hear you say that."

"Welcome back, sir." Steve and Thor look around the room for the source of the voice.

"Elevators working, JARVIS?"

"The elevators have sustained no damage, however the rest of the building-"

Tony waves a hand absentmindedly. "Save it."

"Miss Potts will not be pleased."

"JARVIS, you're killing me, alright? Just take us to the Penthouse."

"As you wish, sir."

…

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a drained Natasha slumping forward in a chair in the middle of Tony's penthouse, an unconscious Loki sprawled at her feet, berretta in hand. He sees blood on her temple, a split lip, and Clint leans forward subconsciously. Relief fills her face at the sight of them, and suddenly she's crossing the room, nursing one of her feet, holstering her sidearm, and seconds later she has switched places with Thor. She places a firm hand on his chest, and he can feel his heart beating beneath it. "You look like shit, Barton."

"You too, Romanov."

Tony lets out a low whistle as he steps out of the elevator and takes in the damage. "Pepper's going to kill me." A low whine seeps from Loki's lips, drawing everyone's attention. "Sounds like our new friend is coming to."

Clint's face remains strained, but there is humor in his voice. "Well, let's go greet him."

…

He's sitting on the granite counter in one of Stark's ridiculous bathrooms, left leg expertly wrapped at the ankle and knee, as Natasha stands in front of him, tweezers in her right hand and gauze in the other. Thread, gauze, ointment, alcohol, and bandages litter the counter, some stained red, while a mug slowly fills with glass and skin and blood.

Clint winces as she spreads another cut apart with her fingers, tweezers digging into his flesh skillfully, and removes another shard. The instant the tweezers are out she puts the gauze over the cut to stem the blood rapidly surging to the surface and he covers it with his hand obediently, waiting for it to clot. She drops the glass into the mug absentmindedly, her eyes already scanning for her next target.

Clint watches her, unabashed, as she determinedly tries to put him back together. He suddenly notices a small bruise on her temple and their fight dances, unwanted, into his thoughts.

"Natasha."

She does not look away from her work, focusing on a particularly nasty gash, but 'hmms' in response.

"When I asked you how many agents I killed-"

She stops, tweezers clasping a deeply embedded shard, and meets his eyes. "Clint." She shakes her head, red locks swaying, "don't."

"Nat." She is worried and determined and her green eyes are shining and he can't. He can't hold her gaze, not when that bruise is in the corner of his vision. He swallows and looks down, but only sees the past. "I remember."

She does not look away; instead she reaches her hand forward and ghosts her fingers across the bump on his temple. She waits until he looks at her again. He is ashamed at how long it takes. "How much?"

He mirrors her actions, brushing a lock behind her ear before tracing that faint bruise. "Everything."

"Clint, it wasn't you."

Does that make it better? And it was him, because he remembers every moment. But he does not say this, he does not say anything. Instead he pulls his hand away and starts to slide off of the counter.

Natasha grabs his hand in both of hers and steps closer to him, so that their faces are inches apart, that all of his senses are trained on her. "Don't. Don't you shut down."

He closes his eyes, tries to pry his hand away. "I hurt you."

The silence is deafening. Nothing in the room moves. Then… A soft breath brushes his chin. Fingers slide deftly up the back of his neck and curl into his hair. Moist silk ghosts his lips. Disappears, returns to press harder.

His eyes fly open, and all he sees is green. "Don't leave me again, not after I just got you back."

His hands tangle into her locks as his lips find hers again; soft, impossibly soft, but with strength, with power behind them, just like everything about her. He pulls back, just a little, and finds her eyes again. "Don't let me."

She answers with kisses, and for the second time that day Clint Barton is done.


	4. Chapter 4

Her fingers tenderly rake against his scalp, soothing the hammering pulse behind his eyes, as her lips softly brush against his. She smells and tastes of salt; a mix of blood and sweat that conceals her natural scent, but he can still taste her underneath, on her lips, on her tongue, still smell her on her skin, on her hair.

He cannot seem to stop cupping her face with his soiled, callused hands, his coarse thumbs stroking her jaw, fingers disappearing into her hair. She lightly scrapes the nape of his neck with her nails, pulling his bottom lip in between hers, and he sighs against her. She kisses him unhurriedly, carefully, thoroughly, centering him; drawing him out of his memories and into this present moment. The room is quiet and her cheeks are warm against his thumbs and her pulse thrums against his palms and his chest aches and he hurts. All he knows right now is her. He sighs into her again.

She breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against his, her hands still combing his hair as his thumbs rest against her cheeks, forest green meeting gray blue. "Here?"

Clint tilts her head up and kisses her chastely, "here."

They go back to picking glass out of his arms, except now Natasha is standing between his legs and his hands are resting on her hips.

She drops another shard into the mug. "How'd you get these, anyway?"

"Breached a window."

She turns to him and raises an eyebrow. "Without sleeves?"

He shrugs, winces at the knot in his shoulders, "not my best idea."

"Not your worst." He cannot argue that.

There is pounding at the door, followed by Tony's voice: "SHIELD just picked up Loki and Selvig, you two done banging yet?"

Clint rolls his eyes, squeezing her hip before grabbing another piece of gauze and swiping at a trickle of blood on his bicep, "You and Coulson weren't over exaggerating."

Natasha ignores Tony's jibe and inventories the remaining shards, "five more minutes!"

"Well hurry up! Shawarma!"

She leans toward Clint's shoulder to better see a cut and he kisses her temple. "I thought he was kidding."

"He's hard to read at first, but you'll get used to it."

"Huh."

She pauses and looks at him. "What?"

"It just occurred to me that working with these guys isn't going to be a onetime deal." Neither agent is sure how they feel about that.

…

The air is thick with dust and the restaurant owners look confused and tired when their group walks in chatting amicably, bell chiming overhead. The scent of roasting lamb and beef assaults his senses and for a moment Clint is back in Qatar following half a dozen tired kids in uniform into a worn, cheerless diner. But Thor's deep, full laugh snaps him back to attention and the memory is gone. Thor and Steve are already sitting at a table, Tony waves a waitress over while Bruce uprights two chairs. Natasha is at his side, silently waiting for him.

"Shawarma and coffee. Lots of both, preferably."

Clint shakes his head, "no. No coffee." He looks to the waitress, "do you have Gatorade?" She shakes her head, tired and in shock over the attack and confused as to why these people are here, now, and if he had the energy left he might feel something; guilt, pity, shame, for her, but he does not. Life always goes on too quickly after battle. "Then water."

Tony pouts. "No coffee?"

Natasha takes the seat next to Steve, pointedly ignoring Bruce's sheepish glances, and Clint carefully lowers himself into his own seat, suppressing a groan of discomfort. "We're dehydrated, low on carbs, sugars," he winces as Natasha helps him lift his leg onto the back of her seat, gives her a small smile, "we need water, food, sleep. Maybe a shower in there somewhere."

"So… no coffee?"

Bruce accepts his glass of water from the waitress with an appreciative smile before turning to Tony. "Agent Barton's right. Although tomorrow's going to be hell no matter what we do. So," he lifts his glass with a shrug, "cheers."

Clint, Natasha, Thor, and Steve all promptly down their glasses, Thor waving for a refill, and Clint cannot help but feel a sense of comradery with the captain and the demigod; they are both intimate with this post battle exhaustion and comfortable with sitting in silence. Tony has experienced it, too, but only a few times, and, if the reports are accurate, Bruce always spent this time alone. Both look a little uncomfortable.

After Thor's fourth refill the waitress gives up and brings them two pitchers. The shawarma arrives minutes after, not quite warm enough and a little sloppy, but Clint almost melts with contentment at the first bite. Natasha rests her hand on his leg, above his ankle, and he thinks that she must sense it, too; the familiarity. Post mission shawarma, how many times have they been here before?

Steve looks around the table, chewing thoughtfully, and Clint watches him, waiting for him to speak. The captain settles his eyes back on his sandwich. "The food, the company, kind of reminds me of East Prussia." He looks out at the tattered, broken street. "Outside, too."

Natasha pours herself another glass of water from a pitcher. "Prussia's gone."

Steve blinks. "You're kidding. I spent a month there."

No one seems sure what to say to that, and Steve is undoubtedly, obviously going over memories, so they settle into a comfortable silence again. Although if the way Stark keeps twitching his lips is any indication, Clint knows the quiet will not last for long.

Seconds later Tony scratches his chin and opens his mouth. "I can't believe Rhodey didn't show up. Asshole still has my suit."

Bruce mumbles a "who?"

Natasha puts her sandwich down. "Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes of the United States Air Force. A friend of Tony's."

Bruce looks to Tony. "You gave him one of your suits?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow, and Clint can see the smirk in the corner of her lip. "He stole it. After kicking Tony's ass."

Tony glares at her. "It was an even fight."

"Not if you consider the learning curve."

"But I was drunk. And dying. And where were you during that little brawl, by the way?"

Natasha levels a stare at him and Tony gives it right back. "Evacuating your guests. And Pepper."

"Fair enough. As to my original question…"

Clint shrugs. "Fury probably told him not to."

Tony waits for Clint to continue for almost ten seconds before losing patience and motioning at the archer, "care to elaborate, agent Barton?"

"Fury likes to make statements, get people's attention, leave a strong impression. He wanted you four to win. And he wanted the world to see it. Lt. Colonel Rhodes would've taken away from that."

"That why you use a bow?"

Clint nods. "Arrow's a little more… memorable than a bullet. Let's the right people know SHIELD was there without me having to get close."

Bruce pauses mid chew. "That's a little macabre."

Thor shakes his head, "we have a similar tradition in my realm, I knew a warrior who cut off the left hands of his fallen opponents and placed it over their faces, so whoever was collecting the dead had to remove the hand to identify the fighter."

Bruce sets his partially finished sandwich in his basket and flexes his left hand. "That's worse."

Tony nods, "that's a little messed up."

Thor shrugs, "I sometimes thought it was unwarranted, but he was a good warrior."

"Hydra didn't even leave bodies to send home. Got shot by one of them and you just… vanished."

Clint has no idea what to say to that, and apparently neither does anyone else; the group abruptly falling into an awkward, morbid silence that lasts for several minutes.

The bell over the door chimes and Clint turns to see four military police at the door, three New York police officers waiting just outside. He can feel the blood drain from his face. A young, extremely nervous Corporal steps forward and clears his throat awkwardly, eyes darting around the room as if unsure where to look. They finally settle on Clint, but another minute passes before the soldier finds his voice. "Agent Clinton Barton of SHIELD, I am here to place you into custody as ordered by the Council."

Steve stands up and slams his hands on the table, "on what charges?"

All four MPs immediately have their hands over their side arms, eyeing each member of the group warily. A Private slowly reaches into his uniform and pulls out a stack of papers, cautiously handing them to his superior, who begins to read: "Espionage, conspiring with the war criminal Loki, stealing a government vehicle, hijacking a government aircraft, incapacitating a …hellicarrier? Deserting your post, infiltrating a military base-"

Natasha rips the list from the Corporal's hands, Clint can tell from the multiple pages that the man barely made a dent in it, and shreds it into pieces. All four MPs have their pistols cocked and pointed at her face, Thor and Bruce are standing, and Tony is making his way around the table.

"I'll go." Everyone turns to look at him and Clint stands, a hand supporting his weight on the table. "I'll go."

The Corporal clears his throat, 9mm now pointed at Bruce. "We're here for Bruce Banner, too."


	5. Chapter 5

A heavy pause settles over the restaurant. In the silence Clint can almost hear his ribs grinding into each other, against each other, as his diaphragm expands and contracts, his lungs stretching painfully against his chest. Or maybe it's his teeth, his jaw, grating bone against bone. Doctors always said he tensed his jaw too much. Spasms start to run up and down his arm supporting his weight. Soon it will shake, and then it will collapse, and he will be on the floor again. He needs to sit down or walk, but these kid MPs, he's sure none of them are over twenty, are on the defensive; they feel cornered despite having the weapons and will instinctively fire at the slightest movement. So he stands, arm twitching and leg shaking and sweat forming on his brow, and waits.

Bruce brings his hands up, palms forward, slowly, and the Privates shift their attention from Natasha to him. "Ok, let's all calm down. None of us are going to hurt you, we aren't armed, so let's put the guns away."

The three Privates glance around the group; Steve and Thor both manage an innocent look that somewhat counters their size, Bruce still has his hands up, Tony is glaring, annoyed and offended, Natasha, being armed, also puts her hands up and gives the Privates a cute, frightened smile, and Clint appears to be absolutely no threat in his condition. All of them look exhausted. The Privates cautiously start to lower their weapons, but the Corporal only looks annoyed. "Save the psychobabble, Banner, I don't find you threatening in the least."

Clint does not have to see Tony to know that the man is rolling his eyes. "Are you serious? You don't know who this guy is, do you? Who any of us are? Well let me tell you something, soldier; it's going to take more than four of you," Tony points at Bruce and Clint, "to take them in."

The Corporal cocks his pistol, eyes never leaving Bruce. "I have my orders."

"Fuck your orders, they just saved New York. These men are heroes."

One of the Privates holsters his pistol. The Corporal swallows, but does not turn, "arrest Barton, Collins."

Collins' hand hovers above his holster as he stares at Barton, sizing him up. Clint recognizes this moment; the first time a soldier debates a direct order. His was years ago; before Natasha, Coulson, SHIELD. Finally, Collins' hand goes limp as he looks away. "You know I'm from Queens, sir."

"Damn it, Private-" Clint collapses into his chair and the Privates turn their guns on him. Natasha walks in front of their barrels and pulls her chair up to him, her hands carefully testing the muscles in his arm.

One holsters his pistol and steps forward, "hey, you ok?" Clint lets the man check his pulse, two fingers cold against his neck, as Natasha swipes at reopened cuts with a napkin. "You're burning up, and your heart's racing, we should get you on fluids-"

"Hess!" The Corporal turns to the third Private who glances outside, then back at the Avengers, before shrugging and holstering his sidearm. "We could be court-martialed for this!"

The bell over the door chimes as Agent Maria Hill enters the diner, the side of her head still coated in blood. "Stand down, Corporal; your orders have been retracted."

The Corporal nods, undoubtedly relieved, uncocks his 9mm, and holsters it. Clint shoos Hess away from his ribs, the Private frowning at him but saying nothing. "Thanks, Hill. Sorry I shot at you."

"Thanks for missing."

Clint scratches the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. "And… trying to run you off the road."

Hill's eyes soften, "don't worry about it, Barton, I'm fine."

Clint nods. "When did the hellicarrier land?"

"It didn't. Fury sent me to find the Avengers as soon as the Council issued orders for your and Banner's arrest."

He rubs at his chest, trying to sooth the tightness that has settled. "Saving my ass, that's usually Phil's job. Where is he, anyway?"

Hill does not hesitate. "Agent Coulson is dead."

"Probably debriefing Selvig, or did he hear we were eating shwarama? He always hated this stuff. Speaking of, you boys want some?"

"Agent Barton."

Clint's hand settles on his chest as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He finds Hill's eyes, sees the barely masked pain. "…What'd you say?"

"Phil's dead, Barton, Loki-"

Clint pulls Natasha's pistol from her hip and starts limping toward the door. "Call them back, Hill."

"Who?"

"Loki. They took him less than half an hour ago, he's still in transit, call them back." The bell chimes and Clint swears he will never step foot in that restaurant again.

Natasha is at his side as he limps aimlessly along the street, stalking angrily toward nothing. "Clint-"

He keeps limping, "why didn't you tell me?"

He hears her sigh. "I pushed the information back, couldn't deal with it until the mission was over."

Clint staggers over to a car, leaning his weight against it as he tries to catch his breath. What she had done was standard mission protocol; keep emotions controlled until after debriefing, but he still felt betrayed. "The mission's been over, you could've told me in the bathroom."

She leans next to him against the car. "You're the mission." He looks over at her, really looks for the first time since he last saw her three months ago, and sees her exhaustion mirroring his own. She nods to her handgun. "What are you going to do with that?"

Clint looks at it, then at her, is it not obvious? "I'm going to kill him."

"If bullets could kill Loki you would've had him that first day."

He sighs, returns the gun to her hip. "Fuck, I'm so tired, Nat." He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog, the ache that has settled. "Loki didn't let me sleep, I haven't slept." He swallows. "Phil's gone?"

He hears her let out a shaky breath, sees her eyes gloss. His last conversation with Phil, before the tesseract started acting up, comes to mind. They had been watching a baseball game in the base's makeshift sports bar, nursing two beers, and discussing what they should get their Russian for her ten year anniversary at SHIELD. She had been seventeen when Clint brought her in; malnourished and paranoid and completely uninterested in either of them, but Phil loved a challenge. Father figure was definitely not the right word for it, as Phil sent her on deadly missions all of the time, and Clint could never think of him as an older brother, but over ten years the three of them had become family, and for the hour on the hellicarrier that Clint was unconscious, Natasha had lost them both.

He clenches his jaw and pushes himself off of the car, swaying unsteadily for a moment, before reaching out and pulling Natasha against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. At first she does not move. She has never handled public displays of affection well. Clint's left leg aches and he cannot stop himself from putting some of his weight on her, and Natasha's arms circle him as she accepts the burden. Her voice is soft, muffled against his shoulder. "I'm no good at this 'comforting' thing."

He turns and kisses her temple, hugs her a little closer. "Me neither. But this is good. This is enough."

…

Steve finds them leaning against the car again ten minutes later. Clint can tell that he is relieved that neither of the agents are in any type of emotional state. "Captain."

Steve nods in greeting, "Agent Hill has requested that the three of us stay at Stark Tower for a few days, until things calm down back at SHIELD."

Natasha stands. "What'd Tony say?"

Steve smiles. "Stark wasn't thrilled with the idea, but apparently Hill had already cleared it with someone named Pepper, then mentioned that this Pepper was upset about Tony not calling before shwarama? I'm not really sure, but Tony shut up after that. He, Bruce, and Thor are headed to the Tower."

Clint tests his leg, "don't think I can make it that far, Captain."

"Don't have to, I got us a ride." Steve motions to a Humvee making slow progress down the street.


	6. Chapter 6

"How many fingers do you see?" Bruce makes a peace sign in front of Clint's face, his hand gliding slowly to the archer's left. Clint tries to focus on it, to follow the fingers with his eyes, but the cooled air of the lab is chilling the sweat on his bare chest and back, goose bumps tickling his skin. Somewhere behind them a machine hums loudly, letting out the occasional sharp stutter. The back of his brain throbs in rhythm to his pulse. And he cannot get over the ripped jeans and too large faded Rolling Stones t-shirt the doctor is wearing, lent to him by Tony. The flip flops are not helping. "Agent Barton?"

"Two."

"Are they fuzzy? Out of focus?" Clint flinches as a soft click reaches his ears, followed by a blinding light in his right eye. "Slow dilation, hypersensitivity to sound, slow reaction."

Clint pushes the flashlight away and Bruce's face slowly comes back into focus. "Let's just both assume that I have a concussion, Dr. Banner."

Bruce nods and sets the flashlight on the metal lab table. "No broken bones, at least. Bruised ribs, sprained ankle, knee, shoulder," he prods around a few of the cuts that litter the archer's skin, "some of these could use stitches."

A few minutes pass as Bruce continues to inspect the cuts, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The machine stutters, breaking the silence. "So what's the prognosis, doc?"

Bruce pulls back from Clint's shoulder and leans on the lab table behind him. "You'll live, although I'm concerned about your concussion. You'll be in a lot of pain the next few days," he turns and starts sorting through a glass cabinet, "Stark doesn't have much for painkillers… can't take vicodin, no morphine, ibuprofen's out, here we go, extra strength Tylenol."

Clint waves the offered bottle away, "Don't like painkillers."

"The next few days are going to be hell, Agent Barton-"

"Clint. Or Barton. The 'agent' part's questionable at this point. Plus we did save New York together, Doctor."

"Then call me Bruce. And hold on to these," Bruce places the bottle in Clint's palm, "they're not much, but they'll take the edge off."

Clint sets the bottle down next to him and settles his gaze on Bruce, trying to focus on the man in front of him, on the thoughts that are slow to materialize. "Do you remember?" Bruce is silent for a long time, or maybe not long at all, Clint's very thoughts seem to drop in and out of focus, but he can almost see the doctor's mind race, currently the exact opposite of his own. He thinks that maybe his question is unclear, debates how to elaborate it, waves his hand in the air vaguely, "when you're…"

The half sentence hangs between them, Bruce's eyes dart to his before looking away, and Clint knows that he is not going to get the answer that he wants. Again, the machine stutters. Bruce sighs, brings his head up to match Clint's gaze. "Feelings, flashes, but where I was, what I did?" he shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, Clint."

Clint nods, looking away. "How do you…" he searches for the right words, but even simple phrases elude him, "deal? With what you did, when you couldn't even control it?"

"I abandoned my research, Betty, everything. I wouldn't call it 'dealing' with it. What you're going through? I know that guilt, but I don't have any answers for you. Don't let it consume you."

Clint chokes on a bitter laugh. "All I feel is guilt."

"It'll get better, but like I said, the next few days are going to be hell. Now," Bruce holds up a needle and suture thread, "about those stitches."

…

Ever since his circus days Clint has been a man of simple tastes and pleasures; happier with a burger and fries than lobster tails or caviar and more comfortable on an army cot than a luxury mattress. Anything fancier than his barracks on the hellicarrier or his apartment in Brooklyn or their safe houses just seems unnecessary. That being said, the built in bench in the shower of one of the unfurnished condos is amazing. Almost as amazing as the handheld showerhead that Natasha is using to wash his back as she stands under the main shower.

Clint closes his eyes as she tenderly rubs the soap soaked loofa across his shoulders, over his biceps, down his spine, against his ribs; cleaning away the sweat and dirt and fatigue without putting pressure on his aching muscles and bruised skin.

He grunts as she rubs shampoo into his scalp, fingers kneading. Her hands stop. "Sorry."

He moves his head back, into her palms, silently asking for her to continue. "It's ok. Just tender."

"Concussion?"

"Mmm." He opens his eyes and watches the water drain, tinged pink with blood as it swirls around their feet. "How's your ankle?"

"Just a strain."

After she is done with his hair he has her sit on the floor with her back to him, leaned forward, as he scrubs her back with a little more force than she used on him. "How was mother Russia?"

"Didn't finish the mission."

"Loki takes priority, hmm?"

"You took priority."

Clint pauses his scrub massage and leans forward, placing a soft kiss in her hair.

"How was New Mexico?"

He rinses off her back and begins shampooing her hair. "Until Loki arrived indescribably boring."

"Always ignoring orders."

"Worked out for me once."

She ignores his flirty compliment, instead telling him more about her mission, but her voice is fading into a pleasant drone, mixing with the current of falling water, and his hands slow, fingers tangled in her curls, his head nodding forward, eyes closing.

"nt. Clint." A hand cups his chin, lifting his head, and Natasha slowly comes into focus, again standing before him, concern marring her features.

He manages a smile, "want to have hot, wild shower sex?"

She smirks and turns off the water before helping him stand and sliding the shower door open. He winces at the temperature change. "Pepper found us a queen inflatable mattress and some blankets."

"Inflatable mattress sex. Could be fun." He catches the towel thrown at his face.

"And Stark lent you some clothes." Clint drops the towel and groans at the purple sweat pants and Pink Floyd t-shirt Natasha has in either hand.

…

She smells of dove soap and Strawberry shampoo (so does he), but he can still smell her underneath; on her skin, in her hair. His cuts and shoulder and leg and head all ache, but his skin is clean and dry, his arm wrapped around her waist, their bodies molded together under the crisp white blankets in the otherwise barren master bedroom. He buries his nose into her hair and breathes in deeply, eyes fluttering closed. This is his favorite spot; on a bed (any bed) in a room (any room) with Natasha curled against him. "Three months is too long." She 'hmms' in agreement as he kisses her shoulder. "Next few days are going to be rough."

She squeezes his arm, "get some sleep, Barton, I'll be here for them." He nods, nose brushing her skin, and his body and mind finally let him sleep.


End file.
